SOUP

A soup between two people
The food is not to share
But to be made to
Two tastes of which
A third can be proud
And so the ingredients
Of two opinions try
To get along
The soup has water
But nothing else
Adds up
The bowl is empty.
_______________________________

Dawn

I am in revolution country,
where there is no passport save
the baggage on your shoulders
the anger flinging itself against sloth-prisons
The flings hurt,
but even worse, the self-pain
I give up..
shaken from the deep slumber
of disappointed lethargy, I rise,
and sweeping through in a pitch final effort,
as cold skeptics look on,
there are no cheering crowds.
I reach a centum.
I look around, for
there haven't been centums for a while.
the next fall short.
I wonder,
Is it I?
have i really gotten there?
or was it a happy accident?
the centum whet my appetite.
Now, I doubt my own hunger
and my resolve
for all testament
to the past is in fickle forgetful memory,
subject tot the force of will
as amused skeptics and
the once faithful sink in
betrayed trust into anger and disgust
Tired eyes, diverted minds stare listless
as the heart hankers to get back
and restless limbs go after, food, film,
any diversion is fine
any jouissance is fine
any gratification is fine
the heart hankers on and on,
Excuses run out
I am in revolution country
It is time to get up.

THE BARD

THE BARD

 

    There existed a bard

And when he sang, people

Stopped all they had and

Did and listened

For he could

Captivate like no other.

Th stories he told rang

In people’s heads, resounded

In their hearts

And reflected

In their deeds, and so

Great was his prowess

At telling stories, he wove

In character and fantasy and

life and what not that new worlds

would take root, and

capture people and swallow them whole.

So magical were his worlds, and

Since there were so many

He had many names and

Many faces

And many tongues and

Many more lives and all

Of them captivated

Someone or the other

And he never failed to have

An audience ever

Even in silence.

But so many were his stories,

So many were

The lives he wove into them

That no matter how

much one studied

No one knew them all

And yet they felt they did

For so tight were his stories

That no one escaped their snare

You either knew them, or didn’t

You either liked them, or didn’t

You either believed them or didn’t

You either bothered or didn’t

No one escaped his snare.

Now I am not like the bard.

For I can neither create nor captivate

And I certainly

Do not have an audience.

I write this

With the buried yearning

Of a writer Who hopes

To once be read

And understood, just once,

I don’t rhyme my words

I don’t have wit

Nor do I have depth

I have neither drama

Nor realism, nor romance

Not flighty light heartedness

No hidden meaning

Nor implied, heavy symbolism

I don’t use a meter

No established formula

That guarantees your book’s sale

I don’t even have a good story, for god’s sake

Yet I just write.

But I’m typing, right?

And as I type,

I’m also thinking

Of all those people,

Whose writings have

Become landmarks,

That no one could reach.

Why so? I wonder.

Most of them are mystifying

Perhaps that’s the

Source of their charm.

And so they captivate

And eventually are

All bits and pieces

Of the bard’s own stories

Floating around

Maybe a story less

Person like me

Is a drifting piece too…

Who knows?

I could ramble on for ever

As only a drifter can

But I think I will stop now.

Listless

Listless

I sit down to work

Staring at the screen

And at the doodles

In my notebook

I feel

No former fire

No burning will to

No desperation, no

Will at all.

I feel ashamed

But my conscience

Stays unaffected

Rather

Wondering

If

I had

Let myself

Down badly.

All I do

Is

Pretend

To

Write

Great

Poetry

When

All

I actually

Do

Is

Break up

Sentences

Reassemble,

Play

Juggle

Or

Use high

-handed words

To describe

Mundane stuff

I am again

Writing merely

To assuage

A conscience

That berates me

Not because

I don’t work,

But because

I didn’t

Create

Learn

Or do

Anything

I

Consider

Worth my

While.

There

You go

again

.

Please

Feel

Free to

Criticize

This

Tear it apart

For I am

Disappointed

Myself.

This is

Definite proof

Of

An

Idle

Mind.

So lazy

Even the

Devil

Would

Think twice

Before

Turning it

Into

His workshop

To

Think

We need

Some kind of

Stimulus

That throws

One’s mind

Into a frenzy

Seeking

Resolution

Until then

Restless

So come in

All ye

conflicts of the world

enter the idle arena

set us thinking

that

satisfaction

may be gained

from sorting

out a

conflict

that would

otherwise

run into

anger

and

fear

two faculties

that

eliminate

existence

before emotions

run

high

and

nothing

is left.